


Fairytale End from the Staggering Blow

by jumblebumps



Series: Flesh and Bone [2]
Category: Dishonored (Video Games)
Genre: Christmas Crack, Deleted Scenes, Fluff and Angst, Multi, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parent Daud (Dishonored), Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Warnings in Author's Note for Each Chapter, backstories, extras
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-11
Updated: 2019-01-12
Packaged: 2019-08-22 07:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16593323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jumblebumps/pseuds/jumblebumps
Summary: A collection of deleted scenes, backstories, and other little details that don't make it into the main fics and are primarily written because the author has no attention span. Intended to be read alongside the other fics in the series (Currently Consisting of: "A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate")





	1. The one where Fisher joins the Whalers

**Author's Note:**

> Wooo miscellaneous side stories? Work title is a reference to the song "Flesh and Bone" by the Killers, because evidently I've started this theme and now I'm committed.
> 
> This first one ends maybe about 10-12 years before the start of "A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate" and features some transphobia, misogyny, and the Abbey of the Everyman (which I feel like should be its own warning for some reason, those guys are dicks), but I don't think it's anything too graphic or offensive? I'm trying hard to be respectful and am actually a little anxious about sharing this, so if there's something I should have handled differently, please let me know. I don't want to alienate anyone or be a jerk. (If you do, please don't yell at me D: )
> 
> SeptemberSky wanted to see how Fisher and Daud got along when they first met, so here we are xD

If he can manage it, Fisher always sits in the front row of the lecture halls, second or even third if he absolutely has no other choice. It's the only way to take notes; half of the professors can’t project worth a damn and he needs the light from the plate lantern to see what he’s actually writing down. Getting accepted into the Academy of Natural Philosophy had been difficult enough that anything less than academic perfection is unacceptable. He doesn’t need to give anyone any extra reasons to doubt his abilities. Thankfully, his first semester went well enough that it shut up both his parents and most of the faculty. The other students are nothing he can’t handle.

On the first day of the winter semester, Fisher is able to easily secure a seat in the front row of the Alchemical Pharmacology lecture. There's only one spot occupied by a dour-looking young man with slicked-back dark hair and an almost...unsettling presence about him. The other students notice it, too, if the whispers and furtive glances they’re throwing him are any indication. Or… No, that might not be it. Fisher gives him a quick appraisal out of the corner of his eye as he settles four seats away. The man’s clothes are nice, but the same kind of working-class nice that Fisher’s pantsuit is, not the quality one would expect from the Academy’s typical student base, and he's still wearing a coat despite a second one already hanging off the back of his chair. He can't be from Gristol, then. Perhaps Serkonos?

If this new student is both working class and Serkonan, well… Fisher’s acutely aware that two strikes against you is one more than most at the Academy are willing to overlook.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” the professor calls out as he enters the hall, followed closely by his graduate student toting a heavy case full of image plates. The hall gives a murmured acknowledgment of the greeting as the professor settles himself up at the podium where he evidently catches sight of Fisher in the front and amends, “Oh, and lady.”

Fisher sighs, but keeps his mouth shut.

“Welcome to Alchemical Pharmacology. I am Dr. Bragg and I will be your professor this semester. Jonathan, the lights, please.”

At Bragg’s direction, the graduate student, having settled in the chair up by the plate lantern, hits a switch to lower the overhead lights and Bragg launches into his presentation.

“Welcome to the lecture portion of Alchemical Pharmacology. If you are looking for Professor Hook’s Art History class, you are in the wrong building.” A few muted chuckles rumble through the class. When no one gets up to leave, Bragg continues, “This semester we will be examining the methods of synthesizing elixirs, salves, tinctures, and the like using such alchemical processes as distillation, sublimation, and fixation, among others. Your grades in this class will be primarily based on how well you perform on your laboratory practicals. I have little patience for grading papers and fail to see the point in allowing someone who only understands the course on the basis of theoretical knowledge alone to pass.”

A few students shift or mutter anxiously, but no one says anything loud enough to warrant a response. Bragg continues to survey the crowd for a moment before he’s satisfied. “Since I am required to give you some form of a grade for lecture, however, there will be periodic exams. I recommend studying as I do not curve. Are there any questions?”

There are a few more grumblings, but they settle down quickly.

“Perfect. Let’s begin. Jonathan, the first slide, if you please.”

* * *

When they arrive in lab that afternoon, the benches are clearly set up for pairs. Fearing the worst, Fisher immediately goes to Dr. Bragg.

“Sir--”

“Oh hello! Miss, ah, Fisher, isn’t it?” he says, giving that benign smile that always precedes someone not taking Fisher seriously.

“Yes, sir,” Fisher responds, forcing himself to maintain his polite composure (he can’t afford to alienate himself here, he just has to keep his head down, stay quiet, and smile, smile,  _ smile _ ). “I was wondering--”

“Yes, I heard you got fantastic marks last semester!” Bragg goes on as if Fisher hadn’t been speaking at all. “You even beat out some of the young men in your class, very impressive. A lot of us weren’t sure you’d hold out, but here you are!”

This is already shaping up to be a very, very long semester… “Here I am,” Fisher echoes, plastering on a grin. “I just wanted to ask, are--”

“I think this class will be good for you, I have my students work in pairs for the semester, you see.” Bragg looks down to straighten some papers and adjust his glasses. “You’ll have someone to help explain things if you get overwhelmed.”

Fisher can feel his grin becoming less genuine and more forced as he silently reminds himself that it isn’t wise to strangle one’s professor. It is, in fact, an excellent way to get expelled from the Academy. “Great. Thank you. That’s all I wanted to know.” He’s able to turn away before Bragg starts up  _ again. _

Shit, this is what he’d been worried about.

It’s not even that he doesn’t want to work with anyone. He wouldn’t mind, honestly, if the stakes weren’t as high as they are. He can’t afford a single error, not even one misstep, and he knows for a fact that no less than half the students in this class see him as some delicate, infantile thing that’s incapable of rational thought. They won’t let him get a word in edgewise, even if he’s right. Outsider’s eyes,  _ especially _ if he’s right. Fucking Void…

No, he can’t get stuck in that. There has to be a way to fix this. Fisher looks around. Only a few students have arrived so far, among them the Serkonan young man from the morning’s lecture, and Fisher considers each one. He could, theoretically, sit somewhere by himself until he is either assigned a partner or someone picks him. If he does that, though, he’ll be at the mercy of chance, but if he chooses someone, he’ll only have himself to blame if he ends up being wrong.

Somehow, that sounds more tolerable.

Let’s see… Does he know if anyone here so far isn’t an asshole?

...That would be a no.

Sighing through his nose, Fisher considers the Serkonan. He doesn’t even know the young man’s name, let alone whether or not he has a reputation, but it might be better to take a gamble than a sure loss. At least there’s the chance he won’t be miserable.

Making up his mind, Fisher steels himself and puts his books in front of the empty seat on the bench. The Serkonan looks up from the book he was reading, clearly confused by Fisher’s presence.

“We’re being split up into lab partners,” Fisher explains, sitting down before the man gets the impression that he’s about to ask his permission, “and I’m  _ hoping _ you and I can get along.”

The Serkonan makes a show of glancing around the room. “...You wouldn’t prefer to try you luck with,” he waves a hand dismissively, “any of them?”

“I’ve met them before.”

“I don’t particularly want to work with someone...prickly.”

Oh Fisher can show him prickly if that's what he wants, but hopefully he’s just being defensive. “Don’t treat me like an idiot, and we won’t have a problem.”

Surprisingly, the Serkonan chuckles and gives a wry smile before offering his hand. “I think I can manage that. I’m Daud.”

“Fisher.” They shake hands, both gripping firmly and making direct eye contact.

* * *

The first lab practical comes out of nowhere. Bragg doesn’t announce it until that morning’s lecture, insisting that they “should all know exactly what you will be tested on” despite having never been told.

It goes over about as well as can be expected, and Fisher is only thankful that they’re allowed to use their notes.

“Okay, so,” he says, flipping furiously through the pages of his notebook, “now that we’ve gently heated and mixed all the reagents so that they’ve reacted thoroughly… We need to distill it.”

“Not yet.” Daud starts looking through their box of reagents, their half-finished tincture in his other hand.

“What do you mean ‘not yet?’”

“Before you distill it, you need to extract it with chloroform, otherwise it won’t work right.”

“Chloro--?! Where did you come up with that?!” Fisher hisses. He’s grown accustomed to working with Daud and it's usually rather pleasant; he actually reads the textbooks and pays attention during lecture. More importantly, he’s willing to listen to Fisher without complaint. Before now, he hasn’t tried to do anything that Fisher hasn’t agreed with. “The directions say that the next step is distillation.”

“The directions are wrong,” Daud mutters. When he catches the dirty look Fisher gives him, he elaborates, “I’m not saying you wrote them down wrong. I know what the book says, but you won’t get a pure enough product with just distillation.” He gestures to their attempt at the tincture. “There’s alcohol in this as a byproduct, and it evaporates before the tincture will.”

“Yes, I know. You distill off the alcohol, then the tincture comes after it.”

“When does the switch happen?” Daud challenges. When Fisher just blinks, unsure of the answer, he continues, “The tincture isn’t miscible in chloroform, but the alcohol is, and the chloroform is more dense. The waste will sink to the bottom and our product will be on top. We decant it and  _ then _ we can distill it without guessing when the alcohol has evaporated off.” Seeing that Fisher still doesn’t look convinced, he adds, “You can always blame me if I’m wrong.”

“If you think you’re wrong, then how about we just don’t do it?” Fisher hisses.

Daud’s stony expression doesn’t change. “I don’t. I know I’m right.”

Fisher sighs. “Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

For the first time, Daud seems to lose some of his composure. He shifts uncomfortably and looks away. “I just… It’s something I remember.”

“From  _ what?” _ It’s impossible not to sound exasperated at this point. They’re running out of time to finish.

Daud’s voice lowers, “My mother used to make things like this for a living, and she taught me some of the simpler recipes.” He holds up the reaction bottle again. “This is one of them.”

Has Daud ever mentioned anything from his personal life, Fisher wonders? No, all he knows for certain is that he’s a good student and this is his first semester at the Academy; everything else is just conjecture because Fisher’s never asked and Daud’s never volunteered anything. To be fair, Fisher hasn't exactly offered any information about himself, but still.

“Fine,” he sighs. “If you’re sure, go ahead.”

In the end, Daud ends up being right. Their tincture is the only one that receives a passing mark.

* * *

At the end of the winter semester, Daud disappears. At the time, Fisher thinks little of it. He’s too busy trying to focus on becoming a doctor. It isn’t until another winter years later, on an early date with Charles, that they pass by a wanted poster, looking for some faceless assassin in a mask that’s only known as “Daud.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Charles mutters, staring at the poster as they walk by. “A lot of people are starting to call him ‘The Knife of Dunwall,’ apparently.”

Fisher barely gives it a second glance, too comfortable and warm where he’s wrapped up under Charles’ arm to think of it past some vague memory of knowing someone by that name, once.

* * *

Charles' death is an accident and entirely unexpected. Fisher prides himself on being steadfast, but when the Watch captain comes to the clinic to give him the news, his knees buckle. For once, he's exactly what everyone expects to see, the grief-stricken widow, and Fisher can't find it in himself to care as he dissolves into tears right then and there. A nurse comes to guide him into a chair, holding him and gently hushing while the officer shifts anxiously and soldiers on through a condolences speech that Fisher can't focus on. His husband is dead. What is he going to say to Connor? How is he going to explain to him that his father is never coming home?

The following weeks are a blur. Charles' mother comes to stay with them to help with the funerary arrangements. It's the first time since he moved out from his parents’ that Fisher isn't able to be himself at home. He doesn't know how he'd act differently, but just knowing he has to keep his mask on all the time is horribly exhausting on top of everything else. Connor, bless him, is smart enough to know the drill for when other people are around, and doesn't draw attention to how his mother isn't wearing his normal clothes or is referring to himself all wrong.

Once the funeral is over and all the mourners offering their condolences have left, Fisher can’t see the point in trying to pretend at all anymore. There’s no one left who could be hurt by him finally being himself except maybe their son, but he’s never hidden the truth from Connor, nor would a single father cause much stir. Charles had known about his gender since before they married and had been instrumental in keeping Fisher sane while they kept his secret, even as he tried to convince Fisher that living as himself somehow wouldn’t end in their whole family being carted off by Overseers.

For the first time, Fisher is able to cut his hair short. He dresses in his binder and one of Charles' suits and goes out to make arrangements. Dunwall is massive, he and Connor can start anew there. He rents a flat over an empty storefront where he can open a clinic. He's gone by his married name for his entire professional life, but his medical license still reads “Dr. E.S. Fisher.” No one has to know what the initials actually stand for. It's been long enough since Fisher lived in Dunwall that he's able to convince himself no one will recognize him or make the connection.

He's wrong.

The identity of whoever saw or heard of him and realized that the only E.S. Fisher who graduated from the Academy was a woman remains a mystery. All he knows is that someone does figure it out and in a whirlwind of scandal, his doctorate is publicly revoked on the grounds of “egregious heresy,” his clinic goes abruptly empty, and the Abbey issues a denouncement. It's everything he's ever feared and now Charles isn't here to help him weather it.

He moves quickly; he’s had an escape plan outlined for years. He pawns what he can to get enough money to bribe a ship to get him and Connor out of Gristol. He doesn't know where they'll go, only that they can't stay here. The Abbey is sure to come for him and he's less afraid of what they'll do to him (he's imagined it vividly for years, everyone knows what the Overseers do to heretics) and more afraid for Connor. It's too much to hope that they'll simply send him to live with Charles' parents. The Abbey is many things, but rarely is it ever kind. He packs what he can in one large suitcase, takes little Connor by the hand, and gets ready to leave. They're so close, they just have to make it to the docks. They're almost safe.

Of course, that's when the Overseers appear.

There are three of them, all wearing those horrible golden masks that have always terrified Fisher. As a last ditch effort, he straightens and tries to pretend he isn't the person they're looking for.

“Overseers,” he acknowledges with as much ease and politeness as he can manage while he grips the handle of the suitcase hard enough to turn his knuckles white. “Good afternoon. Is there something I can help you with?”

It's the eyes, Fisher thinks, that are the most unsettling. Not being able to see the Overseers’ eyes makes him feel as though he's looking at one of the clockwork automatons from the Academy. You can tell so much of what a person is thinking from their eyes.

“You can help by coming with us quietly, Dr. Devereux,” one says.

_ Shit. _

“I’m sorry?” Fisher tries for sounding genuinely confused while subtly guiding Connor to stand behind him. The boy moves readily and clutches onto his long coat with his small hands. “I’m afraid you have the wrong person, I’m not--”

Another calls out his given name (the one he hasn’t permitted anyone to call him in decades, even when he wasn’t living as himself, he was always either E or Fisher) and it takes a great deal of conscious effort to not visibly bristle at it. “It will be better for both you and your son if you just come with us,” he continues, speaking as if he’s trying to be  _ kind. _

At the mention of Connor, Fisher grips his shoulder tight like he’s trying to reassure the both of them that there’s no way he’ll let them take him away.

“What do you want with him?” Fisher snarls, all pretense of politeness and ignorance gone.

“That’s none of your concern.”

“Like Void it’s not!”

“He’ll be better off without your heretical influence. We must seek to undo the damage you’ve done.”

Fisher gives Connor’s shoulder a small squeeze before letting go and slowly slipping his hand inside his coat for the pistol he has hidden in a holster on his belt. “And how would you do that?”

“If he cannot be cured and reeducated, he will be put down.”

It feels like someone’s dumped cold water over his head. Fisher growls and draws the pistol, cocks the hammer. “Don’t you  _ dare _ touch him.”

The Overseer standing closest to him takes a small, reflexive step back and says  _ that _ name again. “Come now, you’re only making this harder on yourself and him.”

The worst part is that he knows that. He knows there’s nothing he can feasibly do to protect Connor, that these Overseers will just take him away to hurt and break him and fill his head with lies about how his mother, who he’ll never see again, was evil and hurt him. Fisher knows all this is futile and that he and Connor will only pay for it later, but he has to  _ try. _

This is his  _ baby, _ for Void’s sakes.

When Connor was born, Charles was the sensible one. Fisher could have blamed it on the hormones, but the fact of the matter was that despite all his medical training and theoretical expertise, he had no idea how to handle a baby. He knew how to take care of Connor, of course. It was more a matter of wrapping his mind around being a parent and having a tiny, helpless little human that was wholly dependant on him for absolutely everything, the reality of which clearly not having fully hit him during the pregnancy. Charles was always there, though, every step of the way. He was always there to reassure Fisher, telling him that everything was fine and that he wasn’t mucking it all up:

_ “E, honey, I promise the baby doesn’t need that many blankets. The first two will be fine.” _

_ “Love, you don’t hear the baby because it's one in the morning and he’s asleep.” _

_ “Yes, I promise it’s soft enough for him to eat.” _

_ “I’m not doubting you, honey, I just think it might be good to find a pediatrician that isn’t related to Connor.” _

_ “I know, I know, I’ve got his head. Relax, love.” _

_ “You’re not a horrible parent for wanting to go back to work. The baby and I will be fine, I promise.” _

_ “He’s as handsome and strong as his momma is, you know.” _

But now he’s gone.

“Momma,” Connor whimpers into Fisher’s coat.

“I’ve got you,” Fisher murmurs, even as the Overseers start closing in. He aims the pistol at one’s gut and at least has the presence of mind to say, “Conn, don’t look,” before he fires, but the shot misses.

Yet, despite that, all three Overseers drop to the ground a moment later with bloody bolts sticking out from the unprotected backs of their heads.

Fisher stares, thoroughly confused until three people appear out of thin air and shadow, all wearing vapor masks and matching coats; one plain blue, one blue with a red armband, and the third red. They each have long whaling knives hanging prominently off their belts.

The Knife of Dunwall.

Remembering himself, Fisher aims his pistol again. “Stay back!”

The two with the blue coats raise their left arms, pointing what appear to be wrist-mounted crossbows at him. Fisher drops the suitcase to reach back to hold onto Connor as he takes a step back.

“Stand down,” the red-clad figure  says, stepping forward with his hands folded behind his back. When Fisher stiffens, he stops and shows that they're empty. “Doctor. We aren’t your enemies.”

Something about his muffled voice sounds familiar, but Fisher is too stressed to think on it. “Forgive me if your reputation leads me to doubt your sincerity.”

“If we wanted you dead, we could have just let the Overseers do it for us,” he (fairly) points out.

“What do you want, then?”

“Lower the gun and we can talk.”

“Take off the mask first.”

“Fine.” The man reaches up to loosen the straps on the back of the mask and pulls it off. “Better?”

He’s gotten older, just as Fisher has, in the decade or so since they met in their early twenties, and he sounds (no wonder his voice seemed familiar) like he’s been chain-smoking the entire time. But what’s most striking is the scar that goes down the right side of his face, all the way down to his collar, and Fisher is absolutely baffled that he still has his eye.

_ “Daud?!” _ Fisher lowers the pistol slightly and, momentarily forgetting his five year old son standing right there, says, “What the  _ fuck _ happened to your face?!”

One of the Whalers (that’s what Fisher’s heard them called, right?) in blue, the one with the armband, makes a sound that’s something like a snort of laughter from behind their mask. The other looks away, like they’re trying not to laugh themself. Even the corners of Daud’s mouth twitch a little despite him clearly not appreciating the question.

“I wasn’t sure you’d remember me,” he says.

The whole thing feels too surreal. Clearly, he’s been shot and is hallucinating while he bleeds out, Fisher thinks. There’s no way the assassin Daud and his old lab partner from the Academy are the same person. That’s just… That’s just far too ridiculous.

It isn’t until he feels a small, tentative tug at the back of his coat that Fisher comes back to his senses.

“Mommy?” Connor murmurs. “I thought you said that was a bad word?”

Oh fucking Void…

“We’ll talk about it later, hon,” he says quietly, dropping his arm to his side but still not putting the gun away. “How did you  _ find _ me?”

“I heard about your degree,” Daud says, stepping a little closer now that Fisher isn’t pointing a weapon at him. “And the denouncement. For what it’s worth, I’m sorry about your husband.”

Horror flares in his chest.  _ Oh please no… _ “What do you know about it?” he demands coldly, the accusation clear. Knife of Dunwall or not, if he’s the reason--

“Nothing,” Daud says gently. “I only wanted to offer my condolences.”

“Did you know my daddy?” Connor asks, his little face peeking out from behind Fisher’s coat, but when he catches sight of Daud’s scar, he squeaks and hides again.

“I didn’t, no.” Daud looks back to Fisher. “I thought you might want some assistance with the Overseers. We had hoped to get to you before they did.”

“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it, really,” Fisher says, bending a little to pick up the suitcase and not taking his eyes off Daud for a second, like he’s afraid that if he does he’ll change back into the merciless Knife. “But I’m afraid my son and I have to be going.”

“Where?” Daud challenges. “The Abbey’ll send more.”

“I know. That’s why we’re leaving Dunwall.”

“And what will you do?”

Fisher stares at him. He hasn’t gotten that far, honestly, but he’s sure he’ll figure out something. He has to. “That’s none of your business.”

“What if the Abbey finds you again?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

“You’ll have to keep running forever.”

“What is it, exactly, that you want me to say?!” he hisses. “Right now, I’m just trying to get my son and myself out of Dunwall  _ alive. _ Unless you’re here to help, get out of my way.”

“I am.”

“You are what?”

“Here to help.” When Fisher just stares at him dumbly, Daud clarifies. “You could come work for me. We need a doctor, someone we can trust not to go to the Watch or the Abbey, and you need protection. We can help each other.” He doesn’t falter when Fisher continues staring at him, doesn’t take it back or change his mind.

“You are aware I’m no longer a doctor, right?” Fisher quips. “Nor am I a killer.”

“Revoking your degree doesn’t magically make you forget your skills,” says Daud, “and you wouldn’t have to be. I’m only asking you to be a physician.”

“What about the rest of your men?” He jerks his head at the two Whalers standing back behind Daud, watching their interaction behind their blank masks. “I won’t pretend to be something I’m not just to make others more comfortable.” No, he’s had far more than enough of that, and he won’t go back to wearing his mask.

“If anyone is uncomfortable, they’re welcome to leave,” Daud says. “And if anyone makes you uncomfortable or gives you trouble, I’ll take care of it, but I doubt it’ll be an issue.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“You’d side with me over your men?”

“You’d be one of them.” Daud points out. “But yes.”

“What about my son?”

“He’s welcome to stay as long as you do. There are a few other kids around.”

“Just like that?”

“If you’re worried I’m going to force him to be an assassin, don’t be. I don’t make my people do anything they don’t want to.” When Fisher doesn’t respond to that, Daud just holds out his hand. “Is it still Fisher or would you prefer to be called something else?”

Fisher blinks. No one besides Charles has ever asked him what he wants to be called.

“...Fisher is fine.” He takes the hand Daud offers him and shakes it firmly, maintaining eye contact. “All right, let’s go before I change my mind.”

“We’ll have to transverse back, and each of us can only take the one passenger,” Daud says.

“What does that mean?”

“One of us will have to carry your son, sir,” the Whaler with the armband says.

Fisher’s knee-jerk reaction is to hold Connor tighter. “Absolutely not.”

“It’s either that or we all walk to the other side of the city.”

Oh for fuck’s… “Fine. But if anything,  _ anything _ happens to him, I  _ will kill you.” _

Despite the mask, Fisher can tell the man’s grinning. “Of course.”

Shooting a final glare at him, Fisher turns to Connor. “Conn, this man’s going to carry you for a bit, all right?”

Connor, however, takes one look up at the blank eyes of the mask and clutches tighter to Fisher’s leg, shaking his head.

“Geoff. The mask,” Daud sighs.

“Um, boss, I don’t--”

“Mask off,” Fisher says flatly.  _ “Now.” _

Geoff sighs and pulls off the mask and Fisher instantly understands his apprehension. The entire left side of his face and shaved head are covered in a tattooed pattern of concentric circles that appear to be made of some kind of arcane lettering.

He looks like a gang member.

“No, no, no. No.”

“Geoff is my second in command. He won’t drop him,” says Daud.

“I  _ don’t care _ who he is, he’s not touching my son!”

Connor peeks up at Geoff again and apparently comes to a similar conclusion as his parent because he’s quick to hide back behind Fisher.

Both Daud and Geoff look at the third Whaler, the one still wearing their mask.

“Don’t look at me,” they say in a surprisingly feminine voice, reaching for Fisher’s suitcase. “I’ve got the bag.”

Fisher huffs and kneels down to get on eye level with Connor. “Honey, one of them needs to carry you.”

Connor looks anxious, but nods as he looks between Daud and Geoff. “...Can your friend carry me?”

Daud shrugs. “I can.”

With that settled, Fisher kisses Connor’s forehead and helps him climb onto Daud’s back with his arms around his neck and his legs tucked up under the assassin’s arms.

“In that case, looks like you’re stuck with me,” Geoff says sunnily, grinning while Daud and the other Whaler disappear with Connor and the suitcase. He offers an arm to Fisher. “Ready?”

Fisher rolls his eyes and holds on with mild reluctance. “Don’t drop me.”

“Cute guy like you? Not a chance.” Before Fisher can respond with indignation, the world around him blurs into nauseating shadow.

Outsider’s eyes, don’t let him come to regret this...

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fisher is legitimately one of my favorite characters to write, I love him so much <3


	2. The one where Callista makes Cecelia tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene! :D  
> This takes place at the beginning of chapter 10 of "A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate." No warnings except for fluff and potential second-hand embarrassment. Enjoy!

It doesn't take much for Corvo to persuade her to leave the bar and Cecelia immediately rushes upstairs, hoping to hide in her bunk. Thankfully, no one is around to notice her as she dives in and cocoons herself in her blanket. She hugs her knees to her chest and leans her head down, trying to focus on breathing and not on how she’s still shaking all over. The Admiral’s voice is dampened up here, but she still flinches when his voice vibrates up through the old wood of the pub. She’d just been coming through the door when he’d thrown the first glass, and it smashed close (too close) to her face. Telling herself that he hadn’t been aiming at her, that he’d just thrown it in a random direction, helps very little when she had to shake shards off her hat.

It’s been years, she thought she was over acting like this when men raise their voices. She worked in the pub for years before it had to close; it wasn’t like the men there were quiet. It never bothered her then. Why is this coming back  _ now? _

Cecelia takes a shaky breath and tries to will some control back into her muscles. It doesn’t work.

She hears footsteps coming from upstairs and even though she knows it’s coming, she still jumps when she hears them rap their knuckles on the doorframe, then again when she hears who it is.

“Does anyone know what’s going on downstairs?” Callista calls out.

Oh Void, not her, not now…

Cecelia just scrunches down more, wishing she could turn invisible.

Callista pauses, waiting for a response that doesn’t come, and Cecelia (foolishly) hopes that she’ll just leave when she doesn’t get a response.

“Hello? Anyone?” She comes further into the servants’ quarters, only stopping after the squeaky board just before the corner of the bunks. By then it’s too late for Cecelia to hide.

“Cecelia?” Callista’s footsteps come closer. “Are you okay?”

“Y-yes, I’m fine, thank you.”

“You don’t sound fine,” Callista says. Her voice is gentle and Cecelia knows without looking that she’s wearing a concerned frown. There’s weight on the wooden edge of the bunk as Callista lowers herself down to sit beside her. “What’s wrong?”

Cecelia peeks up over her knees a little. “I’m fine, really. It’s… The Admiral just scared me a little, is all. It’s okay.”

Callista’s frown deepens, creasing her forehead. “What?! Are you hurt?”

What is it about her that’s making everyone ask that all of a sudden? “No, no, I’m fine, really. He just… He’s upset and yelling, and he threw a glass at the wall as I was coming in.”

“Did it hit you?!”

“N-no! It just hit the wall!”

The look Callista is giving her does something to make her chest feel tight. Cecelia  _ hates _ that she might be worrying about her. Tiny, insignificant, invisibile half the time her.

She must show some of it in her face because Callista pulls back and sits on the edge of the cot, staring at her hands folded in her lap. “Sorry,” she murmurs, reaching up to tuck a curl behind her ear. “I didn’t… Would some tea help?” Callista looks back and their gazes meet before Cecelia can look away entirely. “It helps me calm down when I’m frazzled, I could go make you some?”

Somehow, Cecelia can’t imagine Callista’s nerves ever getting the better of her, she’s far too well put together. But the tea does sound...really nice.

“The Admiral and Lord Pendleton are down there speaking with Master Corvo,” Cecelia murmurs. “You probably don’t want to go down there…”

Callista gives a shy smile. “I think it’s safe now. I don’t hear anyone yelling, at least.” Then she chuckles, as if she’s thought of a joke. “I am supposed to be a governess, though. Maybe if they start up again I should scold them?”

What little color Cecelia has in her cheeks immediately drains from them. “Please don’t do that!”

If she didn’t know any better, Cecelia might say that Callista blushes faintly at her concern. “I… I won’t, I’m sorry. I meant it as a joke.”

“Oh...”

The shy smile returns, a little anxious now. “What kind of tea would you like?” she asks, standing. When Cecelia shrugs to indicate she doesn't have a preference, it’s met with, “Any sugar?”

“Two? If it isn’t any trouble, I mean. I’m fine without if it is.” She’s only vaguely aware that she never actually responded to Callista’s offer.

“It’s not, I promise. I’ll be right back.”

When her steps fade away, Cecelia takes a brief moment to shriek into her pillow. By the stars, she is a mess, isn’t she? And of course  _ Callista _ , of all people, had to see her like this, acting like a child and half falling apart. If Cecelia thinks about it too hard, she’s convinced she’ll burst into flames from the embarrassment of it all.

Although it was incredibly sweet of Callista to offer… 

Fresh color burns its way up to her cheeks and Cecelia clamps her pillow hard over her face as if to smother it.

Several minutes later, footsteps up the stairs herald Callista’s return with two steaming mugs of tea. “Here,” she says, offering one to Cecelia. “Would it be all right if I sat with you? I can leave if you want.” She adds the last part quickly, like she’s expecting Cecelia to tell her to go.

Cecelia’s only hope is that enough of her face is still covered to hide the way she flushes at the offer. She knows she really should say no, thank you, she’ll be fine, and then thank Callista politely for the tea, but her treacherous tongue answers honestly before she can tell it to lie. “That would be really nice, thank you…”

Callista’s face absolutely  _ lights _ up with a smile. “May I?” She gestures to the space beside Cecelia and all she can do is nod dumbly and scoot down a bit. Callista carefully steps out of her shoes and sits cross-legged in the cot beside her. “Is the tea all right?” she asks before taking a sip of her own.

Realizing she’s still just staring down at the mug in her hands, Cecelia adjusts so that she’s sitting up more fully and takes a careful sip of the hot drink before nodding. “It’s perfect, thank you.”

Callista gives her another smile and sighs. “It sounds like Overseer Martin wasn’t there when Samuel went to collect him this morning. Lord Attano seems to have calmed the Admiral down a little, but he’s still sounding testy. I can’t imagine what he must have been like shouting.”

It’s comforting to know Callista isn’t holding her behavior against her. Cecelia nods a bit and lets her blanket fall down a little. They both drink their tea in silence for a few minutes before Cecelia catches Callista looking at her.

“Wh-what is it?” she stammers, hoping Callista attributes the pink in her cheeks to the warmth of the tea.

“Nothing, I was just thinking this might be the first time I’ve seen you without your hat,” she says, cheeks pink. (From the tea, Cecelia tells herself.) “I… I never knew your eyes were green. They’re lovely.”

And that takes away the last bit of composure Cecelia was maintaining. Her face instantly goes red and she tries to reach for the brim of her hat to hide behind but she  _ can’t _ because  _ of course _ she isn’t wearing it (she would have avoided this whole topic if she had been, Void damn it).

Instead, she scrunches down behind her knees again. Or, as much as she can while holding a mug of hot tea. “Thank you,” she mumbles, her words somewhat muffled. “...I’ve… I’ve always thought you had pretty eyes, too.”

Her heart just about stops dead when Callista blushes hard enough to be undeniable and looks away. “They’re nothing special, just brown…”

Cecelia shakes her head, forcing herself to sit back up because she  _ can’t _ let Callista think she’s anything less than wonderful. “No, I mean it! They look gold, sometimes, and… And they're always warm and kind, like you.” Then she has to look away because she hadn’t actually thought that through before she said it. Callista is probably going to think she’s strange now, of course…

“...Really?”

Cecelia chances a glance up and Callista’s cheeks are pink and she’s focusing on the mug in her hands. Her eyes flick up to Cecelia for a response and it’s all Cecelia can do to force herself to nod.

“Thank you. That means a lot.” Callista offers her another one of those smiles that make her face just glow, the kind that might inspire a more learned person to write poetry. All Cecelia can do is smile back, her chest light at the thought that something  _ she _ said is the reason for such a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cecelia is 100% me holy shit.


	3. The one where the Whalers celebrate the Winter Solstice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got bored and finally wrote something cracky. This probably has a very loose relationship with the actual fic canon, but it'd probably be between Daud giving Emily the bone charm and Corvo escaping Coldridge in Chapter 5 of "A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate."
> 
> This was written in approximately 48 hours and probably isn't super polished, but I hope it's a fun read for everyone. Even if it's technically late for Christmas xD
> 
> Happy holidays to everyone and have a happy new year! Hopefully 2019 is less of a collective clusterfuck xP

The winter solstice is supposed to be fun. It’s the end of the Month of Darkness and even though the days will continue to be short through the Month of Ice, they are actually slowly (very, very slowly) growing longer as spring approaches. People spend the day with family and friends, exchange gifts, and eat good food if they can afford to. Despite the Abbey’s yearly campaigns where they try (and fail) to get people to spend the day reaffirming their dedication to the Strictures or some other nonsense, they’ve never actually come out and condemned it. So everyone still celebrates it.

Yes, it’s supposed to be fun. Billie understands that, but there has to be a limit to how much fun the novices are allowed to have. It is not going to be allowed to extend to popcorn garlands.

“No,” Billie says, walking briskly into the mess hall where three novices are camped around a table stringing popcorn bits together with a fourth minding a lidded pan on the stove. “You are not hanging those up around the Chamber.”

There’s a chorus of disappointed “awws” and a “but Billie!” that have absolutely zero effect on her resolve. She’s Daud’s lieutenant, his second in command. She’s just as responsible for everyone’s health and safety as he is, and she takes the responsibility very seriously. There is no way she’s letting anyone hang unattended food around a building in the Flooded District in the middle of a plague. Those that have the Arcane Bond are mostly immune, but not everyone has the Bond.

“I said ‘no.’”

“But it’s the Solstice! We always make garlands!” Dodge whines. Of course she’s a ringleader.

“Not out of food you’re not.” Billie reaches to take the spool of thread out of Cleon’s hands. When the boy opens his mouth to protest, she cuts him off by saying, “Do you want to bring plague rats around here? Because leaving food unattended is a good way to get plague rats.” She would know, too, with how often she’s been listening to them lately.

“...No…” he grumbles.

“I didn’t think so.” She pockets the thread, mostly to keep the kids from trying to continue as soon as she leaves.

“What are we gonna do, though?” Akila asks. “Misha put us in charge of making garlands for the tree.”

“What tree?”

“He’s working on a tree.”

“...How?”

Akila just shrugs her shoulders. Her twin brother, Pavel, turns from the stove to say, “He told us he’d think of something.”

Of course he did.

Billie just sighs. “Eat the popcorn,” she tells them. When the novices’ faces light up just a little too much, she adds, “Not by yourselves. Share it. Void, how… How much have you made?”

“A lot,” Dodge says innocently, like she isn’t sitting between several massive bowls of the treat.

Billie puts on her best and most authoritative glare. “Share. I mean it,” she says before going off to try to find Misha.

“But the garlands--”

“Find crepe paper!”

* * *

Rulfio is on his way to Daud’s office, a small package in hand with a tag that reads “For Daud” attached to it under a big red bow, when he comes across a gaggle of novices in the training room. On any other day, it wouldn’t give him pause at all, but there aren’t any lessons on the major holidays (you wouldn’t be able to get the kids to pay attention for one thing, and the older novices tend to be very good at making themselves scarce after a point), so he pauses to listen in the doorway where they can’t see him. They seem to be in a heated discussion about something.

“Pens?”

“Maybe.”

“We could get him a nice pocket watch or something?”

“He’s already got the one.”

“Yeah, and he never carries the one Aeolos gave him.”

“Doesn’t that one tick though?”

“Audibly.”

“Well, see, now that was his first mistake.”

“What about gloves? He always wears gloves.”

They must be discussing getting a Solstice gift for Daud. Rulfio smiles to himself. That’s absolutely precious. Sweet kids.

“We don’t know what’s his size.”

“We can find out.”

“Do  _ you _ want to be the one to try ‘n filch the ref-rence pair?”

“Oh…” The one who suggested finding out (Chester, Rulfio thinks his name is) looks down and fidgets. “No…”

“Didn’t think so.”

“Ooh, maybe coffee?”

“Doesn’t he just use the same kind we have in the mess hall?”

“Yeah, but--”

“If we got him his own he’d have to make it special each time he wanted any.”

“Okay, smartass, then what do you suggest?”

“Uhh… A book?” Rulfio can remember that the boy is Tyvian, but his memory is shorting out past that.

“Really?”

“What? He’s always reading!”

“We have an  _ entire _ library.”

“Fiiiiine.”

“You kiddos trying to figure out a present for someone?” Rulfio asks, finally making himself known. The novices jump at his voice and scramble to their feet to press a fist to their chests in salute when they realize who he is.

“Master Rulfio!” a dark-skinned Serkonan girl whose name escapes Rulfio’s recollection for the moment says. He’s pretty sure it starts with an “R,” though... “Can we help you with something, sir?”

Rulfio waves at them to be at ease with his free hand, smiling easily. “You’re fine. Sounds like you guys need help, though.”

“We’re trying to come up with a Solstice gift for Master Daud,” Chester says.

“Do you have any suggestions, sir?” Something’s telling him the Tyvian boy’s name is Aleksander or something? He really is awful with names.

Rulfio shrugs. “Not really, but I’m sure he’d like anything you put thought into. Those pens or books you mentioned might be good, he likes useful things.”

“So a new knife, maybe?” the boy whose name may or may not be Aleksander says.

“Yeah, there you go. Something like that. Just don’t get him cigars or cigarettes, if you have any self-preservation instinct.” He gestures with the box in his hand and notices all of their eyes flick down to look at it when its contents make a soft clicking noise against the cardboard. “Fisher’s got a standing ban on encouraging that habit.”

A couple of the kids make mildly concerned expressions. Aleksander and Chester exchange looks and the Serkonan girl (Rapha? Is that it? Or, wait, is it Leonid?) opens her mouth to speak, closes it, visibly thinks, then continues slowly. “Master Rulfio… What’s that you’re carrying?”

Rulfio glances down at the box. “Pack of cigarettes.”

“That’s not… That’s not a bow on it, is it?”

“It is.” It takes a fair bit of effort not to start laughing, but Rulfio does grin at them.

“Sir…”

“Didn’t you say Master Fisher said not to get those for Daud?” Now, Rulfio knows that one’s name is definitely Julian.

“He did,” Rulfio says curtly. “And you shouldn’t; Fisher will find some creative way to punish you eventually.”

“But--”

“Don’t worry about me.” Rulfio musses Julian’s hair as he walks past them, earning him quite the scowl. “He already threatens to shoot me every time I bring in an injured novice. It’ll be fine.” How many times could Fisher possibly kill him?

* * *

“A tree?” Billie stops a few feet in front of where Misha’s camped out on the floor of the barracks with Kieron, jars of paint and empty boxes and cans spread out between them.

To his credit, Misha is very, very good at pretending he has no idea what Billie is talking about. “What?” he asks blankly.

No, wait, that could just be him.

“How, exactly, do you think you’re going to find a tree on the night before the Winter Solstice, in Dunwall, and in the middle of a blockade?” Billie clarifies.

“I mean, it doesn’t have to literally be a tree--”

“Then you’re going to have some very disappointed children to deal with, I can assure you.”

“I have a plan!”

“I really, really hope you do.”

Misha holds up a tall cardboard box he’s painted green on one and a half sides, like that answers her question.

“What’s that?”

“We’re making a tree,” he says, then he holds up one of the tins (from Pratchett’s Jellied Eels, it looks like) that Kieron’s painted to look like a red bauble with bits of gold filigree. “Tyvian firs won’t grow this far south, and there’s no way I’m paying a jacked-up price to buy one that’s been smuggled in.”

“So you’re painting a bunch of boxes green?” She can only imagine how well that would go over with the kids.

“We’re going to put them in a tree-shape!” Misha protests. “It’s nowhere near done yet!”

“It’ll look good, promise,” says Kieron. He sets another tin aside as he finishes painting a white snowflake over what he’s already painted blue. “We’re going to arrange the long boxes out so they’re like branches for the ornaments.”

“The kids’ll like it, it’ll be fun. I got Dodge to start making garlands.”

“I noticed...”

Something in Billie’s voice must betray her earlier irritation because Misha gives her an accusatory look. “What did you do?”

Billie rolls her eyes, but says, “I told them they weren’t going to drape food all over and that if they wanted to make garlands it’ll have to be out of something inedible.”

Kieron shrugs, unbothered, but Misha makes a noise of disgust and mutters, “Killjoy.”

* * *

Emily eventually ends up in the dining hall with Quinn and several of the older novices, helping to shape popcorn balls (and definitely not helping eat them, nope, not at all) as the young assassins discuss some days-long game that Dodge appears to be in charge of.

“Who’s got the most points right now?” Connor asks, stirring a big bowl of sticky popcorn mixture.

Dodge checks a little notebook she’s been using to keep track of everyone’s progress. “Looks like Carlo has sixty-five points already, but Quinn’s right behind him with fifty-five,” she says, and Quinn gives a very pleased little smirk. This game must be where she keeps disappearing to.

Akila looks over Dodge’s shoulder to see her notes. “Hey, why’d I only get five for Coleman?”

“He’s half deaf…?” Dodge gives her a look. “You should be happy he’s worth any; a blood-ox could probably sneak up on him.”

Emily nudges Quinn lightly with her elbow to get her attention while her hands are covered in popcorn and stickiness. “The munitions officer?” she asks. She’s been trying to learn everyone’s names, but with limited success.

Quinn’s smile and nod mean she’s gotten this one right, though. “Too much testing in a small room,” she explains, and Emily giggles.

Akila clearly isn’t happy with Dodge’s answer, though, because she tries to stare harder at the notebook. “Can I look at that?”

“Sure! Just don’t get food on it.” Dodge happily hands it over, the jingle bells she’s tied to the end of some of her braids chiming softly as she moves.

Akila takes the book and sits between Pavel and Emily to flip through it. When Emily tries to crane her neck to see, too, Akila chuckles and sets the notebook open on the table. It’s open to what appears to be a list of the higher-ranking assassins with point values assigned next to their names. At the top of the list, Daud and Billie are worth one hundred and ninety points, respectively.

“What game are you playing?” Emily asks. She’s gotten over her shyness well enough to feel like she’s not being obnoxious by just asking a question. At least, she hopes she isn't.

Thankfully, Dodge’s face lights up at the question. “Oh! We didn’t tell you?” She spins in her seat with surprising smoothness to face Emily. “A couple years ago I got ahold of a big box of jingle bells,” she shakes her head to make the ones on her braids jingle for emphasis, “and I got an idea. Every year we play this game where we have to wear at least four bells on our clothes and sneak up on one of the masters. If you manage to tag them without getting caught, you get points. Whoever earns the most points gets some kind of yet to be determined prize and bragging rights.” She reaches across to point to the list. “The masters’ points are based on how hard they are to sneak up on. Daud’s hardest, followed by Billie, and then someone like Coleman who’s only a master on a technicality is usually worth fewer.”

Emily nods, not even trying to hide her grin. That sounds like it would be so much fun to watch.

“Hey, if that’s the case, why’s Fisher worth forty?” Pavel asks. “He’s not trained, I thought?”

Connor immediately snorts and starts snickering, but Cleon turns away from the stove with a mildly horrified look on his face. “No, no, you don’t understand,” he begins, his tone closer to one that might be used to describe some supernatural monster instead of the Whalers’ physician, “I tried sneaking up on him last year. He-- You know that thing where sometimes parents say they have eyes in the back of their head?”

“Yeah…?”

“I  _ swear _ he actually does, it’s terrifying.”

Connor sputters with more laughter from where he’s trying to stifle his laughter behind his hand. When Cleon gives him an injured look, Connor tries to straighten up and wave him down. “N-no, sorry, it’s not y-you!” He takes a few deep breaths to try to calm down. His amusement is infectious; Emily, Quinn, and Dodge are all trying to fight quiet giggles, too.

Even when Connor can speak again, he’s still smiling. “Sorry. It’s partially my fault. Evidently I was a handful when I was little.”

Cleon just gives him an expression of confused indignation. “The fuck kind of toddler were you?” (Emily isn’t able to stop herself from giggling more at that.)

“A climber, evidently.”

“Oh.” He blinks. “That...might do it…”

Connor snickers again.

* * *

In typical Dunwall fashion, the sky is cloudy and rainy the next day, making the already short daylight period even shorter, but the Whalers are shuttered up safe and warm in the Chamber of Commerce for their celebration. Emily can hear the dining hall below her already bustling with activity, even as early in the evening as it is, with occasional bursts of collective shouting, cheering, and laughter. 

Despite her curiosity, she waits for Galia to come meet up with her and Quinn in the library so that they can all go down together. The hall is filled with the lights and the low, comforting drone of voices from the dining room. When the three girls appear in the doorway, they’re met with a chorus of “wait!” and “stop!” before Emily can even process the inside of the room. Candles and a handful of whale oil lanterns are spread all over to give the dining hall a warm glow, and the long tables in the back are laden with food. All the tables are crammed full with Whalers and their families; some are wearing the kind of sweaters that are fully intended to be ugly in place of their usual uniforms, a few have cobbled together wreaths out of evergreen plants stolen from some noble’s garden, and still others are wearing party hats (some of which definitely jingle). Almost everyone is pointing up at a spot above the door where someone has stuck a sprig of mistletoe to the frame with a crossbow bolt.

“You’ve gotta kiss!” someone shouts. “Those’re the rules!”

“Kiss! Kiss!”

“C’mon!”

Emily’s still blinking when Galia bursts into laughter. She motions for Quinn to come closer, holds her cheeks, and presses a light kiss to her little sister’s forehead. Giggling, Quinn returns it with a peck to Galia’s cheek before the older Fleet reaches for Emily and kisses her forehead, too. It’s evidently enough to placate the crowd because everyone cheers before returning to their previous activities. Quinn manages to catch Emily in her arms and lifts her a little to plant a kiss to the top of her head before taking her hand to lead her towards the back of the room where the treats are all laid out.

“Hey!” Dodge chirps from her spot where she’s perched up on the back of the chair Pavel is sitting in. She’s wearing a bright red sweater with a tree on the front made out of jingle bells, in addition to the ones still tied to the ends of her braids. “Someone got cider! You should get some before it’s all gone! Did you see the tree?!”

Emily’s distracted by more shouts that announce someone has entered the room. Fisher rolls his eyes, but smiles and pats Connor’s arm as he leans down to kiss his parent on the cheek. When the cheers start back up, Emily looks where Dodge is pointing. A bunch of narrow, rectangular boxes have been painted green and attached to a larger central box in an almost star pattern, sort of like branches. At the end of each one are cans that have been painted to look like colorfully patterned baubles. In place of a star at the top, someone’s carved a chunk of whalebone into a shape that vaguely resembles a whale. Garlands made from crepe paper are wrapped around the “branches” with more pinned in uneven intervals to the walls.

“Oh wow,” she murmurs.

Quinn follows her gaze and grins. “Misha and Kieron really outdid themselves, right?”

Emily nods, her attention already shifted to the cider and sweets that are laid out beside the actual dinner food.

Every time someone new comes in, everyone in the room shouts for them to stop and wait, pointing out the mistletoe they’re now standing under. The reactions of the new arrivals vary from groaning to outright laughter, but they eventually appease the crowd. Most kisses are platonic (on the cheek, forehead, or tip of the nose) and that seems to be all the crowd expects to get out of most people. There is a little more fanfare when an established couple exchanges a legitimate kiss, though. The whole thing remains surprisingly funny to Emily for longer than she’d normally expect.

Suddenly, someone shouts, “Daud’s here!”

He’s come in with Billie, and they appear to have been deep in discussion up until they arrived in a room full of Whalers shouting at them to kiss. Daud gives the mistletoe a hard stare and a slight frown while Billie scowls openly.

“You can’t be serious!” She’s audibly straining to make her voice heard over the din.

“You have to!”

“It’s mistletoe!”

“It’s bad luck if someone doesn’t get kissed!”

“Just a peck on the cheek! Come on!”

Billie starts to go off again, but Daud hushes her and quickly pecks the side of her forehead.

“Will that do?” he asks gruffly, but even from the back of the room, Emily can tell that he’s actually smiling. When the room erupts into cheers, Daud steers Billie inside, completely ignoring her almost embarrassed expression. When he catches Emily’s eye, she gives him a small smile and a wave.

It isn’t long before someone else arrives. At first, Emily is too interested in her plate of food to look, but when the calls for a kiss turns into a rhythmic chant, she stands on tip-toe to see who’s stalling. Thomas and Rinaldo are in the doorway, both a little red in the face and looking mildly panicked.

“Can’t we just--” Thomas starts, but he’s cut off by someone shouting, “NO!” which makes his face go a bit redder.

“Tom?”

It looks like Rinaldo is holding his breath as Thomas turns to face him. All at once, Rinaldo closes the distance between them and presses his lips to Thomas’ as a quiet gasp runs through the crowd. By the time Rinaldo pulls back, face bright, bright red, at least one person in the crowd has recovered enough to give a loud whistle. It’s enough to turn the collective shock into laughter.

“Holy shit!”

“Get it, Rin!”

“Do you two need a minute?”

“What?” Thomas looks hopelessly confused as he stares at Rinaldo, whose expression says he’d very much like to self-immolate right about now.

“Th-they said to kiss…” he mumbles.

“On the CHEEK, Escobar!”

“Hot damn, I’m not even drunk yet, this is great.”

“Well that’s new,” Quinn says softly, grinning into her cup. It’s enough to make Emily snort with laughter.

Poor Rin is never going to live this down.

 

 

 

 


	4. The one where Quinn has a minor heart attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted scene! This takes place at the end of chapter 12 in "A Sudden, Simple Twist of Fate," so maybe read that first. Dunno if it really does much from a narrative standpoint, but I wanted to write it. So here we are.

When the man in the skull mask looks up in her general direction, Quinn presses herself against the roof, willing him not to see her. He  _ shouldn’t _ see her, no one ever sees her or even knows she’s there, but then  _ why does he keep looking at her?! _ Something about him absolutely screams dangerous, like when Daud gets serious, but in this case there isn’t the underpinning of knowing that Daud would never hurt her. The man can’t hurt her, she tells herself. She’s three or four storeys up on a roof. How would he even get up here? As long as she keeps her head down and doesn’t look too far off the edge, he wouldn’t be able to shoot her, either.

Rationalizations notwithstanding, she practically holds her breath until he leaves.

Quinn exhales hard and sits back a bit while she tries to calm back down. He didn’t see her. Everything is fine. Void, she’s going to have to ask the others if they saw--

Shit. He came from Bottle Street, didn’t he?

They’re probably fine, she tells herself, even as she scrambles to her feet and half transverses, half runs across the rooftops to where Connor, Dodge, and Pavel are supposed to be stationed. Dodge was in the outpost, Pavel was supposed to alternate between being across the street and checking on Clavering, and Connor can transverse farther than the rest of them, so he was supposed to alternate between being next to the outpost and looking over on the second half of Clavering, past the second Wall of Light. She mentally goes through their posts over and over in rapid fire, but she doesn’t see Pavel overlooking Clavering. He must be on Bottle Street, he has to be on Bottle Street. He’ll be near the distillery, in the apartment with the big windows.

The only bodies there are long dead. Even though she can’t smell them through her mask, Quinn has to resist the urge to gag.

Is he over with Dodge? He has to be, everyone knows he’s sweet on her. Why does Tynan think it’s a good idea to keep assigning them to the same patrol? It’s stupid, she’s so going to tell on him this time, she swears to the Void--oh no.

Pavel is in with Dodge, and Connor’s there too. Only, they’re not moving. They’re piled in a heap in the back left-hand corner of the room and it’s all Quinn can do to keep from screaming. It was that man. It had to be. But how did he sneak up on them? How did he even  _ see _ them? How didn’t  _ they _ see him?! Oh no, oh no. Outsider, please don’t let them be dead, please please,  _ please _ don’t!

Quinn pulls off everyone's masks and gloves, frantically feeling for a pulse and listening for breath sounds, not paying attention to the piece of paper pinned on the front of Connor’s coat. They can’t be dead, this was just supposed to be a routine patrol, it’s supposed to be safe, they’ve all four done this a million times, what happened?

She has to check for a pulse twice because she’s almost afraid she imagines it the first time she feels Connor’s. It’s slow, but it’s strong. Dodge and Pavel’s are the same, and she can’t see any blood. They're all breathing, too, slow like they're asleep. They  _ are _ asleep! Holy shit, how…?

She's too relieved to dwell on it too much right now. Quinn just offers up a silent thanks to the Outsider or whatever else might be listening and starts trying to shake her friends awake. What even knocked them out? They could be like this for hours if it was a sleep dart. She'll have better luck if they were choked out, but that man would have had to get up here…

Nevermind, of course he got up here. Only Dodge is anywhere near where she was supposed to be. What is this, then? A warning? Who would be dumb enough to go after the Whalers? Who would even be good enough?

Connor is the first to stir. He groans and pushes weakly at Quinn's hands. “Mm, quiddit…” he slurs.

“Connor, it's Quinn. Wake up.” Before he can close his eyes again, she braces the larger boy up as best she can and tries to get him to drink a bit of elixir, hoping it'll do something to help bring him around. She stops when he manages to get some of it down and sits back a bit. “Connor?”

He groans again, but he's moving at least. “Fuck… The Void happened?”

“I'm not sure. Are you okay?”

His expression is half hidden by his long bangs, but Quinn can tell his face is scrunched up. “My neck feels like I was in a chokehold…”

She smiles a little. “You probably were.”

He looks up at her, blinking hard to try to focus. “Oh fuck, my parent is going to kill me.”

“No he won't,” Quinn lies. Maybe not lies-lies,  Fisher won't  _ literally _ kill him. Probably. “Help me wake them up.”

Connor looks down at Pavel and Dodge and startles. “Outsider's balls, what happened?!”

Dodge gives a little whimper and practically hugs Quinn's arm as she tries shaking her. “I think someone got the drop on you.”

_ “How?! _ Last thing I remember, I was on a roof…”

“I don't know.” She nods at the note pinned to Connor's front. “Maybe that says?”

Connor stares down at the folded paper, confused all over again. He ignores an incoherently mumbling Pavel to unpin and open the note. He reads it what must be a few times, his already pale face nearly going stock white.

“Oh shit.”

He doesn't resist when Quinn takes it from him to read herself.

_ Tell Daud that Corvo Attano wants to talk to him in the Old Port District. _

Oh shit.


End file.
